To Carry a Torch
by fairmellarky
Summary: Based VERY loosely on The Great Gatsby. Katniss has the perfect life: a beautiful husband and more money than she knows what to do with. But some aspects of her past just won't disappear, no matter how hard she tries to ignore them. Written for Day 4 of Prompts in Panem, Everlark Throughout the Ages.


**I do not own anything Hunger Games related.**

The invitation sits, pretty and elaborate, next to my place setting at the breakfast table. It's printed on heavy paper, expensive, with scalloped edges and a lacy print. The midnight blue and bright gold inks swirl together. I know what it is. I know that Peeta probably threw it by my place setting with disgust, just as he's going to be disgusted at the fact that I actually want to go. I'll arrange my face and keep my voice in check to fool him, but there isn't anything that could keep me from this party.

Later, after I successfully convinced my husband that anybody who was anybody would be at tonight's party, I sit at my vanity table. I carefully style my dark hair into finger waves and paint my mouth with bright red lipstick. I choose the lavalier with the pearl pendant, a gift from Peeta years and years ago.

He comes up behind me and brushes his lips underneath my ear, his breath hot against my neck.

"Baby, are you sure you want to go to this party? Those gams are making me crazy. I promise I'll make it worth your while," he whispers. He peppers kisses down my neck and I can feel his fingers toying with my zipper. I let him trail his hands around my body, brushing the sides of my breasts, until they reach my lap. The heat between my legs is undeniable, but I stop him as he goes to lift the hem of my skirt.

I stand up, grab my feather boa and swat him with it. The look of disbelief is evident on his face and he lets out a frustrated growl. My eyes flick to the bulge in the front of his trousers and I feel a twinge of guilt.

No matter. He'll get his later.

"Let's go, Peeta Mellark. I want to go to the party," I say firmly, breezing past him. I hear him mutter under his breath as he picks up his coat and follows me down the stairs.

We enter the double doors of the mansion, stepping into the foyer. It is elaborately decorated, all dark wood and stained glass. A grand staircase rises majestically in front of us, the banisters carved intricately and a plush red runner covering the fine marble steps. Everywhere I look I see partygoers draped across the furniture, and each other. I see men smoking cigars and clutching tumblers of counterfeit whiskey, with pretty young birds wearing too much makeup hanging off of their arms. Women cluster together, gossiping and hiking up their skirts, pretending not to notice the stares they're getting.

Peeta strides across the room to the wet bar, pouring a tumbler of bourbon for himself and a glass of gin for me. While he's doing that, I pull out a cigarette and put in into my holder. I take my glass from Peeta and he pulls out his silver lighter, setting the tip of my cigarette ablaze.

"Finnick brought cards. He wants to get a game of poker going in the library. Mind if I go?" He tilts his head and looks up at me through his long blonde lashes.

"Of course not. Try not to lose our fortune," I say with a smirk. "Enjoy your bull session."

He turns and winks at me before he disappears into the crowd.

I occupy myself with my glass of gin and when it's empty, an overweight, balding man with a ruddy complexion swoops in to refill it for me.

"Well aren't you a pretty little dame? I've got my breezer outside, real roomy backseat. Want to come see?" he leers. I can smell the whiskey on his breath.

"Sorry, Mac. The bank's closed. Go see about some other pretty little thing."

I shove past him and make my way up the staircase. I know this house like the back of my hand, yet I find myself wandering through the vast corridors like I've never been here before. Party guests are sparsely dispersed up here; clusters of people are enjoying the free moonshine and gourmet hors d'oeuvres. I find myself drawn to a conversation to my left. I recognize the women from the country club, but beyond their names, I know nothing else about them.

"Well I think that he's just the bee's knees!" exclaimed Delly, a plump blonde with rosy cheeks.

"You've never even met him, Delly. I think it's a little hinky that he never even shows his face at his own parties," says Madge, crassly pulling at her garter straps. They notice me eavesdropping.

"Katniss! Let me bum a ciggy!" squeals Delly. I cringe as I pop open my engraved case and hand her a rolled cigarette.

"Just the perfect person to talk to. Katniss, you have a history with Gale. Why is he locked up in his study?" pries Madge.

I can feel my eyes glaze over as her words take me back to a time that I'd rather not remember. A time when I was young and stupid. A time that I rarely let myself travel to. My stomach clenches as I turn from the vapid blondes and make my way down the hall, my eyes fixated on one door.

I know it won't be locked, so I don't bother knocking. Before I can think, I throw the heavy oak door open and step inside, swiftly shutting it behind me. A dim light comes from the desk on the far side of the room. Even though the leather chair is facing away from me, I know he's there. The musky smell of tobacco mixed with whiskey permeates the air, and suddenly I feel as though I'm choking. I shouldn't have come in here.

"I was wondering what was taking you so long, Katniss. Party after party, week after week. You never came. But now, you're here. Why?" His voice is low and raspy, the deep musical tones that I remember from so long ago.

"I don't know, Gale," I whisper. I gingerly take a few steps to the side and I see him. He's sitting in the chair, staring out of the bay window at the night sky. I see my own house, the home that I share with my husband, across the water.

He stands suddenly and walks towards me, grabbing my shoulders and pushing me up, until I feel my backside hit the bookshelf. I know I should be alarmed, but I'm not. I know Gale; he won't hurt me.

"Why did you come here, Katniss?" he repeats.

"Because you have to stop doing this, Gale. You have to stop having these parties and staring out of the window at my house. I'm married, Gale. I'm happy," I tell him.

"But I love you, Katniss," says Gale, and the strain in his voice makes my heart ache.

"I know. But that was a long time ago. It can't be that way anymore." Before I can continue, I feel his lips crash down onto mine. The sensation is unfamiliar and unnatural, even though his are lips I've kissed many times before. His lips are thin where Peeta's are full, and he tastes all wrong. I bring my hands up to his chest and try to push him away, although it's no use. When that proves futile, I resign myself and my shoulders sag.

Suddenly, Gale's weight is gone. I open my eyes to Peeta and Gale standing face-to-face, fists balled and chests swelled. They eye each other angrily and the tension between them is palpable. Gale is the first to break eye contact, turning on his heel and running his hands through his thick, dark hair as he paces.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Hawthorne?" asks my husband, his voice sharp.

"I could have asked you the same thing five years ago, Mellark. What the hell did you think you were doing? A man gets sent off to the war and you just swoop in and steal his girl? Is that how you show your gratitude to a soldier?" Gale spits the words.

"She made her decision, Hawthorne. You've carried a torch for her all these years and I'm about tired of it. Lay off of what's mine. I mean it," he says and grabs my arm, dragging me out of the room. I get one last look at Gale, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Peeta pulls me roughly from the house and across the back lawn, stopping fifty or so feet from the towering mansion. He spins me so that my back is against the rough shed. He brings his hands to frame my face, his body pins me to the wall and his lips claim mine. There is nothing soft or gentle about this kiss; it's all teeth and tongues and dominance.

He breaks free of the kiss and moves down to my jaw, biting and sucking to my ear, then down to my neck before ending with a sharp nip to the top of my shoulder. He yanks the front of my dress down, freeing my breasts. My nipples pebble in the chill night air. He spends a minute or two with my breasts, but he can't waste time being affectionate. He needs to take what's his, to prove it to himself.

He grabs my thigh, digging his fingers in and causing runs to shoot up and down my stockings, and hitches my leg up around his waist. He doesn't bother with my garter belt, he just reaches up and plunges two fingers in, knocking any fabric to the side, to test my readiness. Despite the circumstances, I want him, and it shows.

I reach down and unbuckle his belt, popping the button and freeing him. With one swift thrust, he is inside of me. When he is buried to the hilt, he growls in my ear: "You are mine, Katniss."

I moan at the sound of his voice and if I could find the words, I would beg him to move. He slowly pulls out all the way before crashing himself into me. He does this a few times until I feel my stomach tighten as I reach the edge. He senses my impending release and reaches down to brush his fingers across my most sensitive area.

"Come for me, Katniss. I want to feel it. That's mine, too," he whispers. His words more than anything are my undoing, and I bury my face into his neck to hide my gasps as I feel myself tightening around his length. Before I even have time to spiral back to Earth, his hips jerk erratically and I feel the burning hotness as he spills himself into me, calling out my name.

He spends a few minutes with his face pressed into my hair, composing himself. After a bit, he slips out of me and I feel cold and empty, even though the result of our lovemaking is trickling down the inside of my thighs and onto the tops of my already ruined stockings. My hair is a mess and my feather boa is long forgotten, left in some dark corner of the house we just stormed out of.

Peeta tucks himself back into his pants and buckles his belt up again. He strokes my cheek and gazes into my eyes, the crystal blue still smoldering.

"I'm sorry, Katniss. He just makes me so angry. I had to show you, show you that you're mine," he says, and there's a pleading note to his voice, as if he's begging me to understand.

"I know, Peeta. I am yours," I tell him.

If I wasn't so wrapped up in our whispered words, I would have noticed the dark figure watching us from the window as we kissed, our bodies bathed in the soft green light from the party inside.

A week later the invitation sits, heavy and unwelcome, next to my place setting at the breakfast table.


End file.
